White Flag
by ObsessedRomantic
Summary: My first songfic, taking place during the months between the earthquake's aftermath and the finale. R/T


**WHITE FLAG **

**Disclaimer: **The O.C. belongs to Josh (and Fox?). The song 'White Flag' belongs to Dido and her record label.

**Summary: **A Season 4 songfic about Ryan and Taylor during the months she was in France. R/T definitely.

**A/N: **Sorry, folks, I just couldn't fight it. My first songfic, as well, so be kind to me? I promise to return to HaL in the Lane-verse ASAP.

--xxx--

_I know you think I shouldn't still love you, or tell you that. _

_But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it; where's the sense in that? _

I knew it was wrong, I didn't need Summer telling me that. I didn't need Seth telling me I was nuts, or Sandy asking what I'd been thinking, or Kirsten trying to explain why Taylor had reacted like she had, asking my friends and family to help me 'move on'. I especially didn't need the pitying glances from Kaitlyn and Julie, the way they softened their voices when talking to me.

I just hadn't been able to help it. I'd read her blog, read about how happy she was in France, how excited she was to be back at the Sorbonne, how she was making friends right and left. It wasn't that I wasn't glad she was doing well; I was. To know that she was fulfilling her dream, living up to the vast potential her mother had pointed out (just before the breakup) that I'd been keeping her from reaching: that was great. Reading that French bastard's name, though; hearing that she'd gone on that show with him ………..

So I'd told her (and everyone who read her MySpace page) that I still loved her.

And called her _picaflor_, just so I'd have a (in my opinion, better) pet name for her than her ex-husband's wildly inappropriate 'peaches'.

From the way everyone here was reacting, you'd think I'd confessed to hiding a body under the pool house. 

_But I will go down with this 'ship. _

_And I won't put my hands up and surrender. _

_There will be no white flag above my door. _

_I'm in love, and always will be. _

It wasn't getting any easier.

Taylor had been gone for months, now; and I still couldn't manage a decent night's sleep. Every time I crawled into the bed I'd once shared with her, I'd be wide awake. Some parts more than others, despite my taking cold showers until I was running a serious risk of pneumonia. I could **smell** her, the scent teasing me until I got up and looked under the bed, and in the closet; just in case she'd come back and no one had told me. I'd be dropping off when I'd hear something and be instantly awake, convinced it was **her** footstep, or **her** voice; heart pounding madly as I waited (in vain) for her to walk through the door and give me that brilliant (slightly wacked) smile of hers. Staying asleep, once finally out, was even more difficult; because the woman apparently had a time-share in my subconscious.

Waking up and reaching out for her, only to remember she was gone, and that it was entirely my fault.

Made it kind of hard to get back to sleep.

Sometimes, I had to ask people to repeat themselves, because I'd faded out on the conversation; either to tired to pay attention or caught up in whatever last night's dream had been. Trying to figure out the dreams took up a lot of my time, too; it wasn't all brooding, no matter what my family thought. They were pretty weird. There was the one about our wedding, the one about the birth of our son, the one about my designing a home for our family, the one where she was talking me out of pounding the shit out of the guy (who looked like a combination of Volchok and Oliver) our daughter was dating.

I guess I was reminding myself of all the things that I could no longer have, the things I'd given up so that Taylor could be the woman she was meant to be, the woman she'd put aside to take care of me. Knowing that I'd **had** to do it (because she never would have) didn't make the loss any easier to put up with.

Or make the Bullitt's offer to loan me one of his planes (and his son, the pilot) so that I could 'corral that filly back home for branding' any less tempting.

_And I cause nothing but trouble; I understand if you can't talk to me again. _

_And if you live by the rules of 'it's over', then I'm sure that that makes sense. _

She'd stopped answering my emails, stopped responding to my posts, stopped mentioning me in her blogs.

My fault, all my fault; but it hurt, a lot more than I'd ever believed it could. Living without her love was bad enough, but having her deny me any attention at** all** was worse. The door of opportunity, that had remained open just a sliver, was now closed entirely. She'd even erased all past reference to me, like she was pretending 'we' had never even happened. Kirsten found me picking up the pieces of the laptop I'd thrown against the wall, sniffling and trying to pretend I wasn't upset. She saw right through that, of course. She got the whole story out of me, and I was hard-pressed to keep the heavily pregnant woman from hunting down Veronica and strangling her. Hormones, I guess. I really should've sworn her to secrecy, because the whole house knew by that night, and Taylor's mother became known as 'that woman' from then on.

Even better, Summer stopped muttering about killing me (for being a complete imbecile) every five minutes.

_And when we meet, which I'm sure we will. _

_All I was then, will be there still. _

_I'll let it pass, and hold my tongue._

_And you will feel that I've moved on. _

She couldn't have warned me? She couldn't have said: 'Hey, Atwood, you remember your ex, my friend? The woman who haunts your dreams, makes you whole; the one you drove away out of some messed-up martyred guilt-trip over her saving you from yourself? She's coming back for Julie's wedding after all, and I'm meeting her at the airport.'

What about that was so hard to say?

Seeing Taylor had hit me like a thunderbolt, erasing any progress that I'd made (**thought** I'd made) in getting over her with one startled look. I was hyper-aware of her, every sense directed her way like a compass pointing north. I couldn't forget how I'd reacted, either; not with Seth reminding me every five minutes. He went on and on about my 'dumb-struck expression', the way I'd turned (it hadn't been more than twice, not the seven he claimed) to stare after her. Somewhere in his chattering, he changed the subject to the move we were planning, and I suddenly realized that, even if she returned home (and if my brother and I succeeded in our mission) it was likely Id ever see her again.

Great. Now I was wondering if I could switch to U.C.L.A. (and commute from Newport) without **too** much drama.

_I will go down with this 'ship. _

_And I won't put my hands up and surrender. _

_There will be no white flag above my door. _

_I'm in love, and always will be. _

It was terrible, it was horrible, it had to be the worst thing I'd ever gone through.

I couldn't breath, my chest felt like I was inhaling past shards of glass.

One glance was all it took to know, to realize the truth I'd spent the last five months ignoring.

I was still in love with Ryan Atwood.

**The End. **


End file.
